


Faith for the Faithless

by streetlights



Series: if you could hear me, speak [1]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, Implied Relationships, Introspection, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Movie, Sophie's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:10:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/streetlights/pseuds/streetlights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She thought that if she stopped holding on, you would eventually let go. But your faith was stronger than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faith for the Faithless

**Author's Note:**

> I guess if anyone is concerned with age, then Sophie here would be about 26. I don't know their official ages in the movie, but my headcanon is that the movie happened when Sophie was 4 and Jamie was 10. I tagged this with Minor Character Death, 'cause I don't really consider Jamie a major character even though he has a big role in the movie.
> 
> And forgive me for being ignorant, but I'm not really sure if snowdrops are common around Burgess. For the sake of this fic, I'm assuming they're not.

She brings snowdrops with her whenever she has the chance. She does this because she knows you liked snowdrops; they are fragile and seasonal and not as easy to find in some parts; but they are pretty and delicate, _and_ they can withstand the winter spell. “I have always been in love with winter,” you would always say, but she knows you like them simply because they are white, like _his_ hair and _his_ snow. You probably wouldn’t have denied it if she said that to your face, but she never had the opportunity to do so.

She walks without hurry, quiet footfalls befalling the snow draped over the city. She never hurries her visits because you deserve much more than a hasty goodbye.

 _He_ visits sometimes. More than thrice a year, in fact. She knows this because she tries to keep count. She knows because she saw frost encrusting the stone even under the sweltering heat of summer a few months back. They melted away just as she arrived; reminding her that he was never meant to be seen. Just a ghost of what never was.

He brings gifts sometimes. They are always cold, wet things that she never really liked particularly, but you probably would have. He leaves snowballs, icicles, and trinkets that – she supposes – he randomly finds near North’s workshop. The ice statues have melted part of the way by the time she arrives.

When she visits, she hardly says a thing. Not a word, not a sound. She doesn’t move from her position for a very long time. She’s afraid that if she tried to do anything it will scare away the winter ghost. And she would never, _ever_ want him to leave if he was here. If he was real. You wouldn’t have wanted that.

Sophia Bennett gently lets the snowdrops fall, and stares at the slab of stone for a very long time.

 

_Jamie Bennett_

_2002-2034_

_Teacher. Brother. Believer._

 

She sighs and sits down gingerly. She will be waiting here for a while.

Sometimes she doesn’t have to try. She’ll see frost slowly covering the stone, decorating it with its ice and the soft tendrils of winter. That’s when she knows he’s there, listening. She never says a word though, because her throat is too dry and the words are caught between her teeth. Still, she tries to catch him when his presence is left obscure. She would look at the snow and search for jagged ice trails and light footprints, but Jack never leaves footprints. Not anymore. He barely leaves any trace behind because the wind catches him like an undercurrent and he likes walking on air more than he does on the ground.

For all Sophie knows, maybe he is perched on your stone and doesn’t know how rude he’s being by doing that. But he wouldn’t, because he _must_ know it’s impolite, because he was human once, and he’s been around for three hundred years to know what’s right and what’s wrong. You said so yourself.

And Sophie doesn’t question your knowledge because you never stopped believing.

You never _once_ stopped believing.

She could have asked you a thousand legitimate reasons why, could have made you see through how silly and illogical you had sounded whenever you would spout stories of magic and cold and wonder, but she didn’t (not after years of trying) because you never listened to reason, never _needed_ more than one reason to believe. You believed in them ever since you were born, and Sophie knows nothing could have changed your mind.

She once thought she believed in them too. She could remember some of those nights clearly: when she came upon the Easter Bunny’s warren and painted eggs with him; when she got to see a pretty little fairy hovering over her, and a big, red man with a booming voice laughing along to some joke she couldn’t understand then. But she grew older, and she had to accept that they were, in fact, only dreams.

(She convinced herself to let go of these fantasies, or else _you_ never will.)

She tried to tell you this one night. You were up in her room, recounting your latest encounter with the elusive winter spirit. Your eyes twinkled with delight, and it hurt Sophie to look at them. ”Jamie,” she had said with a little uncertainty. “You’re almost twenty-two already. Don’t tell me you _still_ believe in them.”

You had scoffed then, as anyone would have predicted. You made yourself easy to read at times. “Of course I do. C’mon Sophie, you _saw_ them.”

“Yeah, twelve years ago! Even _I_ can tell that that was all just a silly dream.”

“Was it?” And you… you said it with so much conviction that Sophie had to use all her strength and will not to doubt herself. After all, they were nothing more than a fancy of your imaginations, weren’t they? “Are you really going to tell me that they’re just stories, Sophie?” you continued to say. “That the Easter Bunny isn’t real?”

She had looked away then, because she couldn’t answer you (and you knew it). It was incredulous to think of what you were both saying; it was silly to even think that these so-called Guardians even had the remote possibility of being real, and yet it hurt her (and she was surprised to find that it _hurt_ ) to think that the Pooka she loved and connected with so many years ago was nothing more than just an imagined friend in her mind. If she went back in time…

She wondered if her younger self would feel disappointed with her unbelief. But it’s a guilt she will have to live with; stories are for children, and she is no longer a child.

“The Easter Bunny isn’t real,” she said. She tried to ignore the hint of wavering in her voice, the niggling in the back of her head whispering fancied creatures and surreal dreams. She tried to make it sound like she was sure of herself… and she was. A little bit. “And so is Jack Frost. You have to let go of them someday, Jamie.”

She will never forget that night, because you had given her a look crestfallen enough to forever be embedded in her memory. It almost seemed like a personal offense to you, and Sophie wouldn’t be surprised if it actually was. Because this… this was the first time she denied these myths in front of your face. And it hurt her to see you taken aback, because you _should have known._ You should have realized that all of it – _everything_ – was nothing more than a game to pass the time.

“Sophie! Sophie! He came by my window today,” you would always say, excitable laughter bubbling from your throat. “He wanted to say hi. It’s too bad he couldn’t stay for long, but I guess there’s nothing we can do about it.”

And Sophie, (the once innocent, sweet Sophie) (the now skeptical, tired Sophie), would always tilt her head and ask (sometimes because she doesn’t really know what you’re talking about; and sometimes because she’ll indulge and humor you), “Who?”

“Jack Frost, of course!”

“Jack Fr-… oh come on Jamie. _Really?_ ” Sophie would always look up at you, would always wonder why you _insist_ when you’re working and already twenty-something years old. Older and wiser and more informed… or at least you should have been by the world’s standards. “You know he’s just a fairy tale.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Yes I do. Jack Frost isn’t real.”

You looked at her, waited for her to say the punch line. But she didn’t. “You… you don’t really believe that, do you?”

Even now, she still doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand why you wanted to protect your childhood so much; doesn’t understand why _she_ doesn’t.

 _(Because it’s all a game, a myth, a lie,_ says the world. And she listened.)

She doesn’t understand (sometimes she doesn’t _want_ to understand) why you held on even when you started seeing nothing, hearing nothing, grasping empty air instead of white hair matted with snow. You came home for the holidays that week. She saw you that night, hunched over and weeping and scared. She was scared too, because you’re her big brother, and big brothers should _never_ be scared – at least not in front of their little sister. That’s what Jack Frost taught you, and you _always_ listened to Jack Frost.

She crawled into your room quietly that night, hesitant and worried. Curious. Scared. “Jamie?” she whispered. You were probably twenty-seven or so. Maybe older; maybe younger. Sophie couldn’t remember the details.

You didn’t answer her for a while. You curled yourself up into a tight ball, but you didn’t cry. Not yet. “… He came by today.”

“Doesn’t he always?” She tried to smile, for your sake. Because you’re always smiling when it came to Jack Frost.

“He said I’m getting to old for him. Said I was growing up.” You were looking at nothing, at everything, maybe at something Sophie couldn’t see, but you certainly could. She wasn’t sure, but your eyes were hauntingly unfocused on the world at that time. “I- I couldn’t see him today, Sophie. I know… I know he was there. But I couldn’t _see_ him. Couldn’t hear him.” Your voice wavered; your hands clenched into tight balls. “But I knew he was there. He wasn’t crying– I don’t think he was, anyway. But I felt his tears.”

You mumbled a lot of things that night. Sophie couldn’t remember them all. But she remembers thinking of a funeral, for you were most certainly mourning then; your head spinning and heart racing and all you ever thought was Jack, Jack, Jack. (“ _I don’t understand. I still believe in him but I couldn’t…”_ )

She saw the tears in your eyes. She heard the stories pass from your lips: stories of snow and fun and love. Stories of flying past the clouds, under the star-filled sky. Stories of snow days and hot cocoa. Stories of stolen winter kisses, cold air nipping at your nose. She used to think that it was you who couldn’t let go of your childhood, but maybe it was also the childhood that won’t let go of you.

After all, she was sure that if Jack Frost was real, then he would have bargained for more time so you could see him longer. More time for you to grow up.

(Perhaps that _was_ what he did. How else would you have been able to see him at that age?)

She doesn’t think you ever realized this (maybe you did, maybe you didn’t), but she’s sure _he_ did. Maybe he knows this better than she does, and she wouldn’t really be surprised if that was the case.

She wonders sometimes. Wonders if he ever saw the sparkle in your eyes whenever you talked to him. Wonders if he saw how excited you were whenever you could feel the North Wind blowing by.

You used to talk to the air sometimes. She would ask you if you knew if he was listening. You said you didn’t. Not anymore.

And he… he was always by your windowsill wasn’t he? Because you’re his Wendy and he’s your Peter Pan, ready to whisk you off to the mercy of the Winds. You thought of his lake as Neverland because it’s there you felt free. It’s there you felt loved.

The winter’s lover, they call you.

You always knew where the North is. She once asked you why. “Simple,” you told her, as if it was the easiest question in the world. Perhaps it was. ”It’s because Jack always brings winter from the North.”

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to tell you that you were being silly, that _he’s_ not any more real than the Sandman is but… you’re different from everyone else. You sincerely believed in _him_ , sincerely believed that _he’s_ real. You think that flying is meant for the immortals, but that never stopped you from taking to the Winds with him.

“Just let it go, Jamie,” she kept telling you. Her attempts were little more than half-hearted, partly because she’s tired of losing the battle. And partly because sometimes she thinks your memories of him are worth keeping. Maybe.

“No, Sophie. I can’t just forget him like that.”

“It’s not like you’re a kid anymore, Jamie. You have to let go sooner or later.”

“If I did that, I might forget.”

She never said it out loud, not when you could hear her. But she would always ask, _would that be such a bad thing?_

She used to play games with you until she was sixteen. They were always pretend games. You came home for Christmas every year, and you would always call her up to your room at night whenever _he’d_ arrive. She will never know how you did it, but you seemed to always know when _he’d_ come. You said it was because the Northern Wind would tell you so.

Sometimes she thinks you secretly knew she stopped believing in him when she turned fourteen, but you never said anything about it. Never got mad when she would pretend to talk to him, even though she was probably facing his staff instead of his face. Never got mad when she told you, visit after visit, that she had fun – _so_ much fun – even though she was lying through her teeth and smiling through the game for your sake.

Maybe that’s why you never called her out for it. She’s the only one you could talk to about this. You’d given up on everyone else but Sophie, because you thought she still had a chance of seeing him. Thought that if you tried hard enough, she would believe.

You stopped talking about him to your friends. Stopped talking about him to everyone except Sophie. She never understood why. She still doesn’t. You said it was because she could still make it; you trusted her enough to see him – but she couldn’t. She will never understand why you persisted on making her believe when _you_ couldn’t even see _him_ anymore.

But the magic is gone; she lost her childhood to the mazes of the adult world. To hormones and stress and harsh realities. _He’s_ not real. The frost forming on the edges of the stone are only illusions of the past, not his magic. He’s just a myth, a fairy tale. That’s all he ever was.

She knows this because she waited three years for him to say sorry. Waited three years for him to explain why he couldn’t protect you. (You died at the age of 32. No one knew why you left your house in the middle of the night, bravely running past the blizzard that struck the city. But Sophie has this inkling that it has something to do with a certain winter spirit, or else you wouldn’t have been found near the forest of his lake. He wouldn’t have let you die, but he did.)

She waited for three years, and she’s still waiting. Waiting for him to prove to her that you didn’t die living a life full of tricks and lies. That you didn’t spend twelve years falling in love with his winter spell because you couldn’t admit to himself that he never existed.

She waits for something – _anything_ – but he never said a word. She waits because she feels entitled to an explanation from him (and isn’t that a little selfish?), but he kinda owes it to her. He owes you this much.

She waits for the frost to creep up on your stone, but there’s too much snow to see clearly. She tries to dust the snow off, but they settle down again as the sky rains down sheets of them. Perhaps he’s not coming. If he ever visited you, she couldn’t see him. And maybe she’s better off that way.

She sighs and makes her leave. She couldn’t catch him. Not today at least.

She looks up at the sky and tries to believe. Tries to see what you saw in those stories and folklore, in those tiny white snowflakes freefalling from the heavens. She knows that deep down, deep in the recesses of her heart, there is room for hope, and room for faith. She tries (and oh how she _tries_ ) not to think that things might have gone a little different, (that you might even still _be_ here), if she hadn’t lost faith. There are times when she thinks she shouldn’t have shunned away your stories. But she did, and she will have to live with it.

She sticks her tongue out; the snow burns.

It’s not the first time she walks away from your grave with a heavy heart. And it will certainly not be the last.

(But she’ll come home and tell her daughter stories of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, and hopes that if her daughter can find it in herself to believe, then maybe she will too.

It’s the least she can do. For you, and for _him_.)


End file.
